Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in awhile, you could miss it. — Ferris Bueller.
What happened to my time?
I’m midway through a book I should have finished at least two months ago. I haven’t touched my PlayStation 3 in weeks and there are about six magazines I have barely flipped through that are piling up on my coffee table like a game of Jenga.
My life has become a blur. An hour feels like a minute. Except when it’s the middle of the night and your crying baby is semi-interested in the soothing pleasure of a bottle. Then it’s reversed.
To whit: I poured myself an end-of-the-day cocktail when I started this post and put the baby down for a nap. She just woke up. I’ve had one sip. And this is only the fourth paragraph.
I don’t know if it’s my baby or if it’s all babies, but there seems to be this inherent trait to start crying or need your attention the second you relax your shoulders and want to sit and have a drink and perhaps read a magazine.
It took us three days to get through an episode of Mad Men recently. Three fucking days. For a 47-minute program. Nevermind trying to watch a movie (just had to pick up the toy my daughter dropped) and that’s why we’ve seen one film off our Netflix (she just dropped it again; she’s gonna have to wait until this sentence is over) over the past month.
Obviously I’m still adjusting to this whole dad-ship and home ownership where parts of my Saturday are spent working in the yard or something and then making sure she doesn’t kill herself while I’m trying to get just 10 minutes of time to enjoy a “me” moment. (She just dropped that toy again. It’s staying on the floor.)
I enjoy my “me” moments. Always have. Some of those moments come when I’m pooping. I like to read the news or play a game on my iPhone and that’s why I usually don’t mind doing my biz at work during the week. But when I’m home, my kid has this innate sense rather than allowing me to take a little bit of time and maybe scroll through Twitter for 20 minutes to basically get all my news and info she’s going to start crying. Now even this most personal of moments is turned into a two-minute drill where you’re flexing your large intestine like it’s lifting weights with Vinny, Pauly D and The Situation.
(This next paragraph was interrupted by at least 30 minutes of spoon feeding. Ella decided she was hungry despite having a bottle less than an hour ago. My cocktail is watery now. Worse, when I was feeding her, my music TV channel set to 80’s hits played “Wind Beneath My Wings.” I couldn’t change it because I was feeding my kid, so I had to wear it and listen to that ballad. Awesome.)
Old parents will tell you to enjoy every moment. But, honestly, I’m kind of ready for my kid to be three or older. Then when she needs attention she can say “Yo! Daddy-oh! Let’s go to the park!” and, yes, my kid will talk like that. But for right now I’m having a hard time trying to decipher baby crying. It’s not like I’m an archaeologist reading hieroglyphics.
My wife and I haven’t eaten dinner before 8 p.m. in at least two months because we both like cooking and just refuse to eat microwave crap meals. (Does this make us elitist? I don’t think so. It makes us normal, I think.) But even the simplest of meals have to wait until we’ve gotten home, fed the baby and maybe put her to bed. Or at least put some toys around her to entertain herself while we shovel food into our mouths like we’re Kobayashi during a hot dog eating contest.
Now it’s bath time, so I can’t finish this post like I’d like to. I’m being summoned to make sure we don’t create a tidal wave all over the kitchen. And it’s taken me over an hour to get this far. So, you get the point.